


moving along now, it's made me dizzy

by beepbopples



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Animal Death, Everything is platonic you weirdos, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, President Toby Smith | Tubbo, Snowchester, Squeeks, Toby Smith | Tubbo-centric, Trauma, so many hugs, this is late but oh well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29103921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beepbopples/pseuds/beepbopples
Summary: L'manberg falls and Tubbo can't bring himself to pick up the pieces.
Relationships: Jack Manifold & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Comments: 6
Kudos: 117





	moving along now, it's made me dizzy

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from nausea by craft spells
> 
> this contains brief mentions of an animal dying, nothing graphic though. Please keep yourself safe if this is a sensitive topic for you!

Tubbo’s L’manberg crumbles for the third time and he’s reminded once again how it feels to be a mortal amongst gods. He’s never felt smaller. Techno is merciless, his cackles mocking over the bombs, firing one blazing rocket after another at their country, their home. There’s no regret in Phil’s eyes from where he stands perched away from the destruction, black wings spread like an angel of death. Dream’s explosives seem endless, the ground rocks so hard beneath their feet it takes almost minutes to stand back up again and Tubbo can’t hear Tommy yelling for him over the ringing in his ears. The dead stare of a dozen Wither’s leaves bone chilling fear and dry dust in their lungs. There is no valiantly fought war or battle, only a massacre that stains the back of their eyelids for weeks.

An absent thought in the back of Tubbo’s mind asks if Wilbur would’ve wanted this. He’d handed Tubbo the title of thirdly picked president when his chest and face still ached and burned where the rocket had struck and his legs shook when he took the stage, standing before everyone he’d ever wept and died for. A part of Tubbo can’t help but taste a certain bitterness when he thinks of the title pushed on his shoulders only for the rug to be yanked from under his feet at the glimpse of relief. He feels like an imposter playing dress up in a fancy coat. Wilbur’s final twist of the knife in killing L’manberg, a child president who never had enough spine to lead.

Techno and Phil are gone before the smoke clears, likely only nursing mild scrapes and bruises. Tubbo looks out at the people he once called family wipe the blood off their brows and no tears are shed. The shocked silence after Wilbur collapsed was soaked with grief of someone not yet forgiven, this silence is all the fight drained out of people who fought for a country that was doomed from the beginning. There are a thousand words and half baked apologies that Tubbo could say but no words can fix the chasm between them. 

Tubbo tears strips of fabric off his jacket to dress wounds and washes caked dirt and blood off his scarred arms in the slowly draining lake at the edge of the crater. He takes slow breaths as he cups his hands and splashes his face with water and scrubs the soot off his cheeks. It starts raining like a sad cliche, his hair clinging to his face in limp strands. His reflection in the lake catches his eye and he dimly wonders if this is what Schlatt looked like waiting for them in that van, sunken eyes and ram’s horns, pathetically clinging on to life. Tubbo pushes his hair aside and brushes his fingers over the tips of his horns he once tried so desperately to hide. Quackity’s voice echoes in his ear, _“You’re acting like Schlatt, Tubbo. A tyrant.”_

He’s shaken out of his thoughts by a hand nudging his shoulder. He turns and sees Tommy who gestures at the group walking out behind him. Ghostbur trails at the back, blissfully forgetting all the hurt felt from today. There was a time where Tommy would grit his teeth and spit every dirty word he could think of at Ghostbur, the closest thing he had to the person who abandoned him, but Tommy has long since driven a wedge between the shadow left here and whoever died that day. 

“Let’s go, big man.” Tommy’s voice is carefully quiet and emotionless.

Tubbo rises to his feet at his words and leaves his ruined suit jacket in the dirt. They fall in step behind Jack and Quackity who glances at him in the corner of his good eye. He remembers the day Quackity died, a scar carved into his smile from his lower lid to his jaw and newly faulty eye glassy. As much as they disagreed in ideals, Tubbo can’t find it in him to hate him.

The charred remains of the Tree that they pass should spark more pain than it does but there isn’t any room left in Tubbo’s chest to feel the loss.

Tommy leads them to the bench where they always seem to end and begin at. Flashes of lightning illuminate on their faces as they take seats without a prompt. Tommy stands and brushes water off the disc he grabbed from his chest and hesitates to speak.

“I- Tubbo this is- this is the disc that I listened to when I was in exile.” His voice holds no malice but the words still sting. They’ve said their sorrys but they both know that isn’t enough to erase all the wrongs they’ve said. Tubbo will spend the rest of his life regretting that decision. There wasn’t a night he slept without gasping awake, awoken by visions of his best friend's body floating by a pillar touching the clouds, his sneer when he called him a monster. 

Looking at Tommy now as he slides the disc into the jukebox, Tubbo can almost see the boy before the loyal soldier. It feels like a lifetime ago when they screamed every piece of hurt in each other's faces, bashing their swords together like children. 

Tommy settles down between Tubbo and Ghostbur with a soft sigh as the song filters through the speakers. Tubbo hums the melody softly under his breath and tries to pretend it’s all okay. 

As the music fades out Tommy straightens back up and heads off to his old place. 

“I guess I’ll be heading off then. Goodbye, everyone.” His gaze lingers on Tubbo pointedly and he recognizes the invitation. He nods and watches his back as he ducks his head inside.

His old cabinet member keeps walking and there’s an unspoken order to follow along. Quackity has always had a commanding presence that demanded your attention. He was more a president than Tubbo ever was, as Dream puts it. 

“Hey Tubbo, it must be difficult knowing that you presidency is what took L’manberg down.” Ghostbur pipes up thoughtfully in his always present optimistic tone.

Quackity snickers behind a hand and adds on, “Yeah, not even my last presidency did that.” 

Tubbo gives a weak chuckle and scratches the back of his head. “I guess you’re right Wilbur, thanks for that.” 

They stop at another balcony overlooking steep hills and oak trees. Tubbo prepares himself for the worst but Quackity surprises him by ruffling his hair and saying, “For your- y’know, political career, it was a great run man.” 

Tubbo scoffs and responds, “Actually it was an appalling run.” 

Quackity shrugs, “I mean, you’ll be in the history books for sure man, that’s something.” 

“Yeah, for the president that drove the nation into the ground.” They speak with light hearted tones and Tubbo picks at the loose threads on his sleeve. 

“Oh yeah, Schlatt and I didn’t even- how did you manage that dude?” Quackity smiles as he talks.

“I guess I just have a way with my words, or you know, maybe Schlatt was just better than me.” The conversation edges too close to real feelings and Quackity falls silent. Tubbo knows better than to go to politicians for comfort so he isn’t expecting any now. 

Ghostbur pipes up after a few moments and comments on what’s left of his tattered suit. “Where’d you get that suit from Tubbo?” 

“You made it for me, Ghostbur.” Tubbo smiles sadly at the memory that feels like years ago.

“I did?”

“..You did.” 

“Oh. Well it looks very nice on you, like you’re filling in some big shoes.” There are some moments when Tubbo feels like Ghostbur knows more than he lets on. 

Tubbo dismisses himself when he starts thinking too heavily on past regrets, sneaking off to slip into Tommy’s shabby home. He winces when the doors creak too loudly on their hinges, announcing his presence against his will. It doesn’t matter too much when he meets his bloodshot eyes, clearly expecting him to show up. 

“Get some sleep, it’s been one hell of a night.” Tommy rasps. 

Tubbo doesn’t need any more prompting, shuffling down next to Tommy’s cot where a blanket had already been laid out for him. He can’t find it in him to care about his wet clothes or the lack of a pillow, he’ll take anything over having to stand again. Tommy’s breathing evens out quickly and Tubbo follows soon after, far too exhausted to let the anxieties of what comes next to sink in.

Morning comes like it always does, stray chickens calling in the sunrise and golden light filtering in through the glass. Tubbo wakes before Tommy who’s only visible by the tuft of hair peeking out from underneath his blankets. Tubbo’s breath catches in his chest at the casual domesticity of it. 

As Tommy rubs sleep from his eyes and grumbles from his bed, Tubbo gathers fresh water and new bandages and spare ointment. Dressing wounds is a task that comes naturally to them at this point, Niki having drilled in how important keeping infection away is. Tearing the gauze with his teeth, he carefully winds the sterile dressing around his hairline and tucks in the loose ends. Tommy hisses behind clenched teeth but holds still as Tubbo wraps a nasty cut on his arm. 

Tubbo tries not to show his surprise when Tommy tilts his head and casually comments, “Wonder what Tech’s up to now.”

Tommy never likes to admit how much people meant to him but he's terrible at hiding it. 

“Plotting our imminent demise probably,” Tubbo answers with a lilt.

Tommy snickers a bit under his breath and says, “Yeah, he would be doing that, wouldn’t he.”

They are both pleasantly surprised to find Tommy’s garden still intact and they crunch on sweet carrots as they lay sprawled in the grass. Tubbo glides his fingers over the earth and listens to Tommy ramble stories of old greek legends between bites. 

“So then- get this Tubbo- some king guy throws ‘im off a cliff into the _ocean_. I wouldn’t have died though, I’m an excellent swimmer, you know.” He gestures wildly with his half eaten carrot as he finishes his story. 

Tubbo hums in acknowledgement and reaches over and plucks a yellow dandelion from the ground. He has a growing pile of wildflowers in between them, his fingertips stained green from pulling the stems. Tommy doesn’t even bother to grumble in protest when Tubbo twists purple and blue through his curls. His hair never reached this length, hanging over his ears now. When Tommy had seemingly come back from the dead, Techno looming over his shoulder, it had been braided with practiced hands and a glinting emerald had dangled from his ear. Tubbo pretended not to notice when he placed it gingerly in a dead man’s jacket with shining eyes.

Tubbo doesn’t stay for long, barely a week passing before he slips out before Tommy wakes. Both of them are too independent now to share such a small space. L’manberg calls too strongly and it’s suffocating. He packs a small bag, scribbles a note with vague directions on where to find him, and hopes Tommy doesn’t mind when he sneaks some of his snacks into his pockets. 

He sets off with only one goal in mind: _away._

A few hours journey finds Tubbo slowly clenching and unclenching his hands to regain the feeling in them. It’s a small clearing along a half frozen ocean, bordered by towering spruce trees. He blows out a visible chilled breath and wraps his blanket tighter around his shoulders, setting his pack down in the powdery snow. After giving himself a moment's rest, he sets to work.

He moves quickly, lighting a fire and clearing snow to have a dry area to work. The first thing he pulls out from his bag is a pair of shears, heading back to find the herd of sheep he’d heard baaing earlier. Tubbo prays that watching Niki stitch their uniforms back together was enough as he takes old leather and fabric and holds a needle in his stiff fingers. 

He only pricks himself once and he sucks on the puncture while he admires his handiwork. The stitchwork is messy but it’s stylistic enough to deem acceptable to wear. The hood is wide and lined with soft wool, along with the cuffs. Brass buttons clasp the coat closed, ripped off from his old soldier uniform. He’s hit with instant relief and warmth when he slips his arms through the sleeves, elated when it just reaches the tips of his fingers. 

Tubbo sets into the familiar rhythm of building. His palm is callused where he grips the axe, scar tissue chapped by the cold wind. Destruction always called for construction, and Tubbo was always the one to pick up the boards and nails. It’s cathartic, in a way. It’s easy to pour all his focus into the swing of his axe and the strain on his arms. 

He can’t help but let himself grin at the finished cottage. It’s small but it’s _homely_ , resting on a stone brick foundation and framed with spruce logs. It’s warm and dry and in his own little corner of the world. The roof is sloped and icicles already drip down the edge in spikes. A fire crackles from inside the hearth next to his hand carved benches cushioned with wool. A compass hangs from the wall on a silver chain, engraved in Wilbur’s print. All homes come with names and this one he calls Snowchester.

Tubbo is just stepping outside to the icebox when he’s startled by Jack’s trembling figure. His hands are tucked under his pits, poorly dressed for the snow packed up to his knees. His brows are pinched and it looks like it pains him to speak.

“Tubbo, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t make eye contact.

“What? Jack, why are you here?” Tubbo shoves down the urge to turn around and slam the door in his face.

“I- There was- Ah, shit.” Jack stumbles over his words and roughly rubs his face in frustration. 

A million different panicked ideas rush through Tubbo’s mind. A part of him doesn’t want to know what Jack has to say.

He takes a deep breath and spits out, “I found Squeeks’ body in a field outside town. I think a creeper must’ve gotten him, there was nothing I could do. I’m so sorry.” 

Something cracks in Tubbo’s chest. “Oh,” he breathes out softly. 

Jack helps him dig a grave and politely turns away when the dam breaks and he cries over his body. How could he have been so neglectful? He was so desperate to get out he didn’t even bother to remember his fox. He whispers tearful apologizes into his orange fur and gently lets him rest in the earth. They push a stone at the head of the grave and Tubbo etchs as many pretty words as he can think of with a sharp rock.

Jack stands idly beside him while he stifles hiccups into his palms. They never really got the chance to become close before they were thrown head first into political conflicts. He straightens once he musters up the courage to offer comfort.

He turns to face Tubbo. “Can I hug you?” 

Tubbo is too distraught to care about the pity in his expression and he lurches forward to bury his head in his shoulder. Jack is quick to react, wrapping his arms around his back. He shudders through sobs and lets himself feel sorry for himself. 

Jack rocks them back and forth with the smallest of movements. “You’re gonna be okay Tubbs, remember to breathe,” he whispers. Tubbo nods and tries to slow down his rapidly rising chest, icy air sharp in his lungs and burning his throat. 

Jack tries to pull away and Tubbo tightens his grip, “Stay.” His voice quiets, “Please.” 

“You could live here with me. There’s more than enough space and I won’t try to govern you or anything, promise.” Tubbo pulls back and looks at Jack with uncertain eyes. He knows Jack’s home was demolished with little afterthought, caught in the crossfire of his own war. 

Jack doesn’t take long to mull it over. “I’d love to live with you, can’t leave you all alone out here, can we?” He ruffles Tubbo’s bangs and attempts a smile. The corners of Tubbo’s lips turn up and he waves from his front door as Jack leaves to gather what little things he owns. 

Jack settles in swiftly within a week, a quaint cabin popping up a few meters from Tubbo’s. His presence brings a lightness to Tubbo’s chest. He helps harvest potatoes and hunts down rabbits and chicken to roast and always knows the best herbs to find for seasoning. Conversation is easy, Jack bridging the gaps when Tubbo falls short. On days when the frost becomes unbearable, they huddle inside together and eat warm stew, reminiscing on better memories. Tubbo can’t stop giggling one night when he attempts to teach Jack chess with crudely carved wooden pieces and a board painted with leftover ink. They watch arctic foxes dart between the trees and hide in snowbanks. 

One afternoon, Jack heads out of Snowchester to mine ores, pickaxe slung over his shoulder. Tubbo is looking out over the ice when a figure comes into view along the tree line. 

Tubbo squints and mutters under his breath, “Tommy?”

His suspicions are confirmed when Tommy gets closer, looking disgruntled at the climate and shaking his hair free of snow. 

“Finally fuckin’ found you, you’re real shit at instructions, you know?” 

Tubbo sheepishly responds, “Sorry, was in a bit of a rush.” 

Tommy rolls his eyes, “So much of a rush you couldn’t even bother to say goodbye?” He tries to come off as playful but Tubbo knows when Tommy is hurt.

Tubbo bites his lip and looks down. “I just didn’t know what to say. Thought you’d understand after everything and all.” It’s a pathetic excuse and they both know it.

Tommy scoffs. “Anything would have been nice! I thought we had that whole roomie thing working out for us.” He rotates and takes in the whole place. “What even is this? Why are you out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“Tommy I couldn’t be around the constant reminder of everything I failed at anymore, it was killing me. This is my escape from that.” 

“Tubbo I think you’re in denial.” Tommy says it like he’s already made up his mind.

“Wha-” Tommy interrupts him and continues, “You’re in denial. L’manberg is gone, _Dream_ is still out, probably planning to kill us, you can’t just bury your head in the sand and pretend nothing’s happening.” 

“ _Denial_?" He fires back incredulously. "What are you talking about- this is acceptance! I’ve accepted my defeat and I’m moving on.” Tubbo fights to keep his voice level. 

“Have you really moved on? You couldn’t even bother to send me a letter to tell me you were okay- I think you’re full of shit,” Tommy points an accusatory finger at his chest. “‘Cause looking me in the eye got too hard and you can’t get over what happened to me, to L’manberg, so you’re running away and pretending it never happened. You haven’t accepted shit.” Tommy’s working himself up, chest heaving with the force of his breaths.

Tubbo feels like he’s going to be sick. “I’m gonna regret that decision until the day I die, you know that.”

Tommy softens at his voice crack. “I don’t blame you, I shouldn’t’ve said that. We already had that conversation” 

Tubbo’s voice can barely be heard over the wind in the trees. “I know.”

Tommy forces the air out of his nose and when he speaks it’s warm. “I’ve already said this, but you know I never meant any of it right? You matter more to me than anything Dream could hold over me, that’s not changing, alright?”

“I know.” Tubbo tries to answer without sobbing but suddenly his voice cracks again and tears spill onto his cheeks. He tries to turn away but there’s no way to hide it from Tommy. It’s embarrassing, breaking down like this. He should be over it already, but he’s not and _why can’t he just move on?_

Tommy grabs his shoulders at the same time that Tubbo reaches up and wraps his arms around Tommy’s middle. “Why is this so difficult?” he whines. His grip on the back of Tommy’s jacket is grounding. Tommy stumbles and almost slips with his added weight but steadies with a slight chuckle.

“If I’m being honest Tubbo, I don’t think any of us are over it.” He rests his hand on the back of Tubbo’s head. “You aren’t alone. I promise.” He says it with so much certainty even Tubbo has trouble placing any doubt on the statement. 

They stay there for so long Tubbo almost falls asleep in his arms. Tommy walks him inside but declines his offer to stay the night. 

“I can’t leave my place alone for too long. Dream’s been targeting it and stealing my shit- getting real annoying.” Tommy told him about the letter Dream left telling them both to show up alone for his discs. “One last fight, big man. Then we can rest.”

Tubbo nods. “One last fight.” 

Tommy leaves and Tubbo lays in his bed and shoves away flashbacks of Dream’s sneering face demeaning him in front of everyone and Tommy’s axe pointed at his neck. Hindsight is 20/20, he’s realizing. 

He curls into himself and lets sleep wash the tear tracks off his cheeks, compass loosely clutched in his grip, running his fingers over the words over and over again. 

For once he wakes up without eyebags, dreams still fresh in his mind of chasing blue coattails through oak trees and laughing until his ribs hurt, a tender voice chimes in his ear and it’s proud of him.

**Author's Note:**

> this is in no way a reflection of the real people, only role play, and if any of the ccs were to express discomfort at this, i will not hesitate to take it down.
> 
> i'm still getting used to ao3s format so please bear with me, i'm learning i promise :)


End file.
